


Scar Tissue

by Keri T (Keri_1006)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:49:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keri_1006/pseuds/Keri%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene after the explosion in Vendetta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2001 as a gift for a friend.

The air smelled so sweet. In between his playful bickering with his partner, Starsky was enjoying the scent of the freshly mowed lawn outside the hospital and the light perfume of flowers budding somewhere out of view. Despite the darkness of the case that was perplexing them both and twisting Hutch's patience and temper into knots, he could still appreciate his favorite type of morning. It was going to take them a few minutes to change the flat tire on the junk-heap anyway, so he might as well appreciate the weather while Hutch sputtered. Airy, sunny, sweet smelling. It really was a beautiful morning. He smiled a little wickedly as Hutch fumbled for his keys, enjoying hearing his friend defend the indefensible, for that car really was a piece of junk.

Until the explosion.

Then his nostrils were filled with the acrid smell of sulfur, but worse, his ears were filled with his partner's low moans. For an eternity, he felt rooted to the spot in which he stood, unable to comprehend the smells and sounds assaulting him so quickly. Then he saw Hutch's knees buckle, and his own stomach clenched. It was real. It had happened, and it had happened to Hutch.

"It's okay," he whispered stupidly, for nothing was okay, and Hutch was beyond hearing words. Starsky couldn't feel his feet stumbling the short distance to where Hutch stood with his left hand tightly clutching his right wrist. His eyes were squeezed shut in agony. His teeth clenched under open lips.

He used a strong arm to encircle Hutch's shoulders, and continued his litany as he eased his friend to the ground.

"Come on." One knee hit the damp grass as he took Hutch's weight. The trembling under his hands made him swallow hard, as Hutch continued to moan.  
"It's okay," Starsky crooned, grabbing at Hutch's arm to look at the badly burned hand. "It's okay... easy." Oh, God, look at it. Singed black from the chemicals, smoke, burns, and streaked with blood. It physically hurt Starsky to look at it. Oh, God, Hutch. Oh, God.

"Come on... come on... please." Starsky whispered, wanting to pull Hutch inside him and take away the pain. Oh, babe, I'm so sorry. So sorry.

Hutch collapsed back against his chest, and Starsky knew he was using all his reserves to fight against what had to be searing pain. He kept murmuring -- softly, soothingly, still trying to get Hutch to let go of his wrist. His heart thudded loudly inside his chest, and he heard it under the broken cries. "It's okay... come on, baby."

Hutch shook his briefly, and Starsky gathered him a little tighter. "We need help, here!" he shouted loudly to the empty parking lot and surrounding lawn.

"Starsk...? Starsk...?" Hutch sounded like he didn't know what he was asking for, and Starsky wordlessly cupped his cheek, trying to calm him as the shaky voice tried again.  
"Starsk?"

"Easy, buddy, easy. I'm gettin' us help. Gonna get ya right inside and they'll fix you up. You just hang on, you hear me!" A slight nod was his only answer. Frantically, Starsky looked around, trying to spot anyone who could help them. After more useless shouting, he realized he couldn't wait any longer. Hutch needed help right now.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm right here." Starsky answered distractedly, trying to decide if he should leave Hutch and run inside the hospital and bring help out, or if it would be quicker to try to get Hutch on his feet and help him inside.

"Starsk? Listen, 'kay?" Hutch whispered, then noisily gasped in some air. "Planted... in my car... like the rat?"

"Maybe. Probably. We'll figure that out later. Gotta get you inside now. I'm gonna just ease you down...."

"No!" Hutch thrust his head roughly against Starsky's shoulder. "They could be watching. We're open."

"Ah, shit." Starsky didn't have time to berate himself for not immediately grasping the fact of their vulnerability. He'd been too concerned with Hutch's condition, but now there was no time to waste. Hutch was right, whoever had planted the bomb could be targeting them right now, and there they were like sitting ducks on the wide expanse of coverless lawn. Without another word, he released Hutch's hand to get both arms around him at his chest, then he hauled them both to their feet as quickly as possible, trying to jar the burned hand as little as he could. Still Hutch hissed in pain, the severity of which seemed to be increasing.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, his own voice sounding ragged to his ears. "Don't mean to hurt you more, but I gotta get us inside." Gently, he straightened Hutch as much as possible and eased his left arm over his shoulder, anchoring it by the wrist with his hand. His other arm clasped Hutch tightly around the waist, and he started walking them as quickly as he could toward the glass doors at the main entrance to the hospital. Once inside, he started shouting at the woman behind the receptionist's station. "We need help. My friend's been burned, he needs a doctor!"

"Easy, Starsk," Hutch murmured.

"Sir, you need to bring him to emergency. This is registration and--" She got no further as Starsky interrupted loudly.

"Where's emergency?"

"Well, you can go one of two ways," the woman answered in a professional tone. "Either take this main corridor to where you see the signs for the elevators and x-ray, and make a left. Then you take that corridor down past the doctors' lounge. Then you'll see another sign..." Starsky was out of patience, and Hutch was sagging in his arms. He cut the woman off again.  
"Lady, take a look at this hand." He gently raised Hutch's arm up slightly and heard a gasp from the receptionist. "Either get me a doctor right here and now, or get me a wheelchair and someone to show us the way. He can't walk that far."

"I can walk," Hutch said weakly.

"Shut up, Hutch. You aren't walkin' it." He blazed furious eyes on the hapless woman as she fumbled for the phone, listening hard as she requested a wheelchair to be brought up front immediately. "How long?" Starsky demanded as she hung up the phone.

"They should be right down, and I'll see that you're escorted to emergency. Why don't you both wait in those chairs?" A fluttering hand pointed to a row of chairs right in front of them.

"Can you make another call for me, please? Starsky fumbled one-handed in his jacket pocket until he came up with a card. He handed it to the receptionist. "This is my card and the number of Metro where we work. We're police detectives, and I need you to call our captain -- his name is Harold Dobey -- and tell him I need a team over here right now. They have to check out Hutch's car..." He stopped as the woman held her pen up, looking confused. "My partner's name is Hutch. It doesn't matter, Dobey will know, just call him, okay, and tell him I'll be in emergency and to have the men meet me there. I'll give them the story." He started to walk them both to the chairs and then called over his shoulder, "Oh, and tell Dobey I'll call him myself as soon as I can."

Hutch was breathing hard through his mouth when they reached the chairs, and Starsky seated him gently. "How ya doin', partner?" he asked, while leaning over to clutch his shoulders.  
/>  
"Hurts," Hutch whispered, opening watery, pain-filled eyes. "I-I feel kinda sick."

Starsky hurriedly sat down in the next chair and wrapped a careful arm around his friend. "I bet you do. You've got a hell of a burn there." He squeezed a little more, urging Hutch's head down toward his own shoulder. "Here, rest your head on me and close your eyes until that wheelchair gets here." When Hutch obeyed with no argument, Starsky knew he was in too much pain and shock to care what any passersby might think. He anchored his hand in the damp blond strands, using his fingertips to rub softly, and he hoped soothingly. Anything to distract Hutch. Anything to help him bear this. "She said it wouldn't be long, just hang on."

The only response Starsky received was a nod against his shoulder. Then Hutch looked up and squeezed his eyes open and closed a few times, releasing a few drops of stinging tears. "I'm not sure I'm gonna be able to play the strong, silent type, here," he tried to quip. "Feels like it's on fire, Starsk," he finished simply, before dropping his head back down on the willing shoulder rest.

Starsky was urging the lump in his throat to return to his stomach where it could continue to nauseate, without preventing speech. Hutch needed him. He cleared his throat a few times and listened to Hutch trying to stifle tiny grunts of pain. Then there were mumbled words.

"It's my right hand. Wish it had been the left one."

His right hand. His gun hand. His guitar hand. Starsky's head swam dangerously, but he found some words and hoped they were the right ones. "I wish it'd been neither, but they're gonna fix it, Hutch. Okay? You gotta know that. They're gonna fix it."

Together they waited for what felt like an hour -- but was actually only five minutes -- for an orderly to appear with a wheelchair in the large area. Starsky waved him over. "That's for us," he called out sharply, while rousing Hutch enough to be able to get up from under the lolling blond head.

The orderly brought the wheelchair over and set the brake. He reached a hand down for Hutch, but Starsky was there first, slowly pulling Hutch to his feet and then sitting him back down. Hutch's complexion was chalk white, and his lips were trembling, despite the fact that he was biting on the lower one. Starsky had to look away for a moment, but when he turned back, his voice was strong and his smile steady. "Almost there now, partner. Almost there." To the orderly he hissed, "Move this thing."

~*~

Starsky was prepared to do battle to have Hutch seen before the hordes already seated in the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the emergency room's reception area. but to his relief the charge nurse took one look at Hutch's hand and grabbed a clipboard. She fired off a few brief questions, directing most of them at Starsky, and once she had the preliminary statistics and insurance information collected, she signaled for another nurse and handed her the clipboard. She immediately began wheeling Hutch back to the treatment rooms. Starsky followed at her heels without invitation, but with determination.

Once inside the room, the nurse closed the drape and set the brake. She leaned down a little to get Hutch's attention. "Mr. Hutchinson, we need to get you in a gown, and then I'm going to soak your hand until the doctor gets here. It'll help a little with the pain." She patted Hutch's shoulder lightly before moving to a small cupboard and removing a gown and sheet from inside it. "Once you're gowned and we have you a little more comfortable, I'll need to get some more information from you regarding your medical history and any allergies you may have." Glancing at Starsky briefly, she again addressed Hutch. "Would you like your friend to stay with you until the doctor arrives?" Hutch nodded firmly. "Okay, that'll be fine," the nurse continued. "Now, do you want me to help you change?"

"Why do I have to put that thing on? It's my hand that's hurt, not the rest of me," Hutch complained.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's hospital policy and makes it easier for us to treat you," the woman answered, advancing on Hutch with the gown and dropping the sheet on the treatment table.

Starsky stepped in. "I'll give him a hand; he'll wear the gown 'cause he wants to get treated right now." Starsky fixed Hutch with his most implacable stare and, to his relief, received an answering nod.

"Fine. Please remove everything but your underwear, Mr. Hutchinson. I'll be back in a moment." With that she left them alone.

Starsky wasted no time. He carefully removed Hutch's jacket, gun and holster and then slowly pulled his green t-shirt over his head and gingerly down the injured hand. With Hutch still seated in the wheelchair, he eased the gown on his arms and tied it in the back. He got down on one knee to remove Hutch's shoes and socks, then rose to quickly stack everything on a small chair. "Okay, buddy, let's get you on your feet so we can get your pants off."

Hutch winced, and another small groan escaped him at the same time he got up on shaky legs. "Oh, shit, Starsk..." Starsky's hand was instantly at his elbow, but Hutch didn't notice it. He was starring transfixed at his injured appendage. His entire arm was shaking wildly, which seemed to throw him even more. "Looks pretty bad, huh?"

"Yeah, but we're not doctors, Hutch. Let's get an official diagnosis before we start guessing at one and get you lying down.

Hutch blinked some moisture from his eyes, not saying anything as Starsky made short work of opening the button and zipper and removing his pants from under the gown. He was guiding Hutch to the table when the nurse came back in the room, pushing a cart, on top of which was a large bowl.

"Just lay back, Mr. Hutchinson. We're going to soak your hand now, and the doctor will be right in." The nurse elbowed Starsky to the side as she worked to get her patient settled. She placed the burned hand in the bowl of sterile water, then shook out the sheet and covered Hutch with it. Going to the other side of the bed, she placed a blood pressure cuff on Hutch's other arm.

Starsky watched Hutch's face closely as the nurse worked, and he saw some relief coming over the strained features as the cooling water started to do some good. Once Hutch's vitals were taken, the nurse began asking the questions needed to complete his registration.

She was just finishing when a large man, wearing an expensive shirt and tie under a neatly pressed lab coat, entered the treatment area just as the nurse made her last notations. "Hello, I'm Dr. Hodges," he announced to no one in particular, then he headed straight for Hutch and pulled his hand out of the bowl by his forearm. He silently examined it for a few moments, running his own hand down one finger, then put it back in the water. He straightened. "You have second- and third-degree burns, and this finger is broken," the doctor stated, pointing to Hutch's middle finger. "We're going to give you medication for the pain now, before I treat your hand. You'll be feeling better in just a little bit." The doctor took Hutch's chart from the nurse and perused it for a few moments. "I also want to call in another doctor -- a burn specialist -- to examine you as well." After handing the chart back, he took out his stethoscope. "Laura?" he asked, jerking a chin toward the nurse. "Will you please page Dr. Williams?"

The nurse nodded and went to the wall phone.

"Doctor?" Hutch started, his eyes on Starsky as he spoke. "This thing hurts like a sonofabitch and I'll take whatever you can give me to knock that back some, but you can't put me out. I mean, nothing that'll make me sleepy, okay?"

"Hutch," Starsky muttered warningly and moved closer to the bed. Hutch raised his left hand, palm-up, as he approached.

"That's final, Starsk."

"If I could interrupt?" Dr. Hodges tone dripped sarcasm. "You have severe burns, Mr. Hutchinson. You need to be medicated before we can treat them, or you'll be in even more pain than you are now." He glanced at Starsky's tense face. "I think your friend should return to the waiting room."

"Wait a second, Doc..." Starsky and Hutch spoke the same words at almost the same time.

The doctor rubbed his forehead, frowning heavily. "Before I have an argument from both of you, may I know the reasons for my patient not wanting to be medicated?"

"I'd like to know that myself," Starsky muttered darkly.

"I didn't say that," Hutch said shakily, fidgeting on the table. “My hand is on fire and I wish I could just go to sleep right now and wake up when it’s healed.” Hutch squared his chin slightly and Starsky knew he was gathering his resolve and that an argument was coming. "What I said was I can't have anything that'll make me sleepy 'cause I gotta go back to work as soon as you bandage me up."

He hadn’t expected that. "For God's sake, Hutch!" Starsky exploded. "The last place you're goin' today is back on the street."

"The street?" The doctor asked, obviously confused.

"We're police detectives," Starsky answered for both of them. "This is my partner and he ended up here because some lowlife planted a bomb in his trunk! Now he wants to go back--"

"And that's why I have to go back, Starsk, and you know it." Hutch rose up a little on his left elbow, paler than before, swallowing after every word which told Starsky the nausea was worse. "I'd like to find whoever the hell I pissed off this time before my head ends up in my refrigerator next." Hutch laid back down before he finished. "To say nothing of the fact that we're chasing one mean mother with a baseball bat. Remember?" His gaze on Starsky was piercing.

"'Course I do, but, Hutch, I can work the case myself. And do you think for one minute I'm gonna let something like this happen to you again?"

"How are you going to stop it by yourself? We're a team...."

"Gentlemen," the doctor interrupted. "You can fight about this later. Now, I can't force you to take morphine, which is what we use in cases like this, and I can't force you to be admitted so we can watch that hand for infection and you can get the rest you need to start healing, but I am telling you that I think you're making a big mistake. The treatment is very painful, Mr. Hutchinson. We have to scrub your hand numerous times in order to combat infection." He leaned in closer to Hutch. "It's extremely painful. I don't know any other way to say it. Please reconsider."

Starsky had his own nausea to deal with when the doctor was done talking. "Hutch, please. Don't do this to yourself, buddy."

Hutch reached for Starsky's hand. "You'll help me, and you know that morphine... upsets my stomach anyway." Both partners stared at each other, but Starsky looked away first.

"He can't take just a small amount?" Starsky asked in the doctor's direction, but his eyes were back on Hutch.

"No." Hutch said emphatically. "I don't want even a little."

"There's gotta be something else they can give you." Starsky was feeling frantic now, unable to contemplate Hutch being hurt worse.

"That's what I was trying to find out, because the pain is getting worse." Hutch made a sound between a moan and a cry and Starsky wanted to punch something. "I'm not trying to be a hero. Doctor, what else can you give me?"

"I can give you Lidocaine. It's similar to Novocain and it will numb the area, but you'll still experience a great deal of discomfort. There are some milder pain medications..." Dr. Hodges voice trailed off as another doctor entered the small treatment room. The two men converged in a corner to talk privately. Starsky took the opportunity to wrap his arm over Hutch's chest and leaned into his ear.

"Buddy, this other guy is goin' to wanna examine you now. I'm going out to the waiting room for just a second. I need to see if the team is here and tell them what happened, but then I'll be right back in, okay? They won't keep me out of here, unless that's what you want?"

"No." The pale blue eyes were still watery, but communicated everything Starsky needed to hear. He left his partner with a gentle pat.

~*~

When Starsky returned to the waiting room there was a pair of young, blue-uniformed officers who hurried to meet him. Starsky knew them slightly, they were second- or third-year men, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of their names just then. His forehead was heavy with sweat, and he brushed some away with the back of his hand while trying to surreptitiously read the polished brass name tags pinned to the crisp shirts.

"Sergeant Starsky." The first officer turned slightly as he greeted Starsky, allowing his name tag to be more clearly read. "Captain Dobey sent us here to meet you. We understand your partner has been injured."

Starsky wanted to be as brief as possible, unwilling to leave Hutch alone too long. He nodded while registering the names of Lane and McCullum. "Yes. Someone planted a bomb in his car trunk. It had to've been when we were interviewing a witness in this hospital, so that means..." Starsky paused to consult his watch, momentarily, stunned to see how little time had actually passed since he and Hutch had arrived to question Eckworth, "...it was probably planted a little over an hour ago. The rear right tire was tampered with, too. Get it towed immediately after you go over it. It's in the front row of the parking lot outside the main entrance. Once you're done with the car, start asking around the registration area. See if anyone saw anything, but don't be surprised if you get a lot of no's. Got a feeling we're dealing with pros, here. They don't get spotted easily."

"We'll get started right now, Sergeant," Lane answered for both of them. "Is Hutchinson going to be okay?"

Starsky swallowed before answering, his eyes downcast and hooded. "Yeah, he's gonna be okay, I think." After they torture him with their goddamned treatments. "I gotta get back in there. I don't want to take the time to call Dobey myself with an update, so could you call him and tell him I'm still with Hutch? Tell him I'll get to the station to brief him as soon as I can."

The three men started to separate when Starsky thought of something else and called back, "Damn. I don't have a car here, now. Listen, before you two head back, check with me, okay? I'll probably need a ride." He thought of Hutch's earlier demands to return to work and considered his odds of reasoning with his stubborn partner. "Me and Hutch might both need a ride."  
With a last nod, he hurried back inside to his partner.

~*~

A deep groan greeted Starsky before he could draw back the curtain and rejoin Hutch. He hurried inside, his heart once again trip-hammering inside his chest. The two doctors were leaning over the table, frustratingly blocking his view. As quickly and quietly as he could, he went around them to the left side of the table, where Hutch was lying white-faced with his eyes tightly closed. He began rubbing Hutch's left shoulder, aghast at the even paler complexion and tightly drawn features. "I'm back, buddy." Starsky's eyes widened when he saw the size of the needle being pulled from Hutch's palm.

"Starsk." Hutch didn't open his eyes, but reached for Starsky's shirt-front, grabbing a fist-full of material. "Hurts. Fucking needles."

"One more, Mr. Hutchinson." Dr. Williams was accepting another hypodermic from the nurse as he spoke. "Try and lie as still as you can. Your hand will start numbing up shortly."  
"How many has he had so far?" Starsky asked, concerned he'd been out of the room when the injections started.

"Two. This is the last one." Dr. Williams made eye contact with Starsky before continuing. "Your friend, as well as Dr. Hodges, has explained to me that we're not going to be administering the usual level of pain medication for this treatment. Mr. Hutchinson has acknowledged this is his choice and is opposing our recommended care. Normally, we would ask friends or family to wait outside when we're treating a patient, but in this case -- and if you promise to stay out of the way -- you can remain with your friend."

"Thank you," Starsky muttered, grateful for the permission, but knowing he would have convinced them to let him stay if it had been an issue. "What happens after you give him this last shot?" he asked, wanting the information to prepare Hutch as well as himself.

"We'll wait a few minutes to allow the hand to become as numb as it's going to get. Then we'll scrub the area thoroughly, apply an analgesic cream, immobilize the broken finger and bandage the entire hand." The needle was lightly tapped as the doctor spoke. "I'm going to inject you now," he said to Hutch, not unsympathetically.

"Okay," Hutch replied, his voice shaky and left hand unashamedly in the air waiting for Starsky's grasp.

Starsky grabbed it firmly, pressing his elbow next to Hutch's until their forearms were linked. "It's gonna be fast, partner," he whispered in Hutch's ear, praying he was right. "You just squeeze my hand real good 'til it's over, 'kay?"

"Okay," Hutch said, then moaned loudly. He clutched Starsky's hand in a punishing grip.

"Easy, easy, easy... almost done, almost done," Starsky crooned, wishing he could switch places with his best friend. "You're doin' real good."

Hutch croaked out something between a laugh and a sob. "Oh, yeah. Sure I am."

The nurse brought over another bowl of water and set it on the small table. Next to that was a brush and a large tube of cream. Starsky and Hutch eyed them, and Starsky tightened his grip. "We'll get through it, buddy. We'll get through it.

"I was supposed to have lunch with Abby today," Hutch babbled nervously, still staring at the harmless-looking brush. "Did I tell you that?"

The squeak of rubber wheels at the bottom of a small stool sounded so loud in the tiled room, as Dr. Williams readied himself at Hutch's side.

"Did I tell you?" Hutch repeated loudly. "You can come with us, Starsk. Maybe Abby will let you pick the restaurant."

Even the soles on the shoes of the petite nurse were making a peculiar noise as she went to stand at Hutch's head.

"Hutch," Starsky whispered.

The metal bowl on top of the metal tray was adjusted, igniting a cacophony of sound. Dr. Hodges stepped to Hutch's right shoulder, completing the semi-circle enclosing him.  
"Don't be disappointed if she won't go for Mexican, though. Abby hates all that spicy stuff."

"Hutch." Starsky smothered a cry under the noise assaulting the room.

A towel snapped and whirred as it was shaken open. The air fluttered, the sounds so loud.

Everything inside him wanted to push away the hand drawing Hutch’s hand out of the water. Push it away, fight them, grab Hutch and go and he knew as well as knew his eyes were blue that Hutch was feeling the same and more so he had to pull it together for his partner and get them both through this. “Try and breathe, Hutch, just breathe.” He couldn’t watch as the brush started its assault. He just babbled to try and capture Hutch’s attention.

“Oh, shit, Starsk, it feels like I’m burning up!” Hutch was straining against the hands anchoring him in place.

“Don't fight it, buddy, don’t fight. You’ll make it worse." Starsky could barely recognize the gravelly voice as his own but it must have gotten through to Hutch at least a little, because the straining eased. “We’re almost done.” Starsky hoped he wasn’t lying and wiped at both their eyes. "Hang onto me. Hang on tight."

~*~

Twenty minutes later, Starsky stood hunched over the sink in the men's room, splashing cold water on his face and trying to get his queasiness and trembling fingers under control. Helplessly watching Hutch suffer while his hand was scrubbed raw, and all but having to hold him down on the table, was something he hoped to be able to soon forget. When it was finally finished and the bandaging started, Hutch had eventually lost his battle with the nausea he'd been fighting since the explosion, and wretched miserably into the emesis basin the nurse held under his chin. Starsky had helped ease him onto his side and rubbed his back while he was vomiting, but as soon as Hutch stopped and collapsed back, exhausted and spent from his ordeal, Starsky had had to rush to the men's room, sure he was going to follow his partner's example and lose his own breakfast.

Oh, man. Can't believe that. Can't believe what they just did to him. Can't believe he got through it without screaming his lungs out.

Once he was sure he had his stomach under control, Starsky grabbed for some paper towels and dried his face and hands. He walked double-time back to the treatment room where Hutch was now sitting up on the table, staring blankly at his heavily bandaged hand. Dr. Hodges was speaking to him, but it was obvious to Starsky that Hutch wasn't listening. His arm was outstretched when he reached Hutch's side, and easily went around the lightly trembling shoulders. "Hey, what did I miss?"

"Your stomach okay?" Hutch asked, still staring at his hand.

"Yeah, it's fine." Starsky squeezed a little, letting his hand splay. "I just needed a drink of water. You payin' attention to what the doctor's telling you?"

"Sure." Hutch looked up then, his eyes wet and haunted.

"Perhaps I should repeat a few things so your friend understands your after-care, too, Mr. Hutchinson."

Starsky answered before Hutch could. "Please do."

"All right. First of all, we believe this will heal with minimal scarring. Most of the burns were not third-degree. The bandage needs to be changed daily and the wounds washed gently with a very mild soap. No scrubbing. Leave the blisters alone, and re-bandage the hand after applying the medicinal cream we'll be giving him a prescription for. I either want to see him back here in three days, or he needs to see his regular doctor to be checked. I'm prescribing both an antibiotic, to prevent infection, and pain medication. He either takes that at night or he won't sleep. He should be taking it now and be home in bed." The doctor frowned at his patient. "I understand that's not going to happen, but I can only caution you both to not push this. He's been through a severe trauma."

"He won't push, Doc," Starsky said warningly. "I can promise you that."'

"Okay. That's it then. I'll leave the prescriptions at the desk and let you dress now. Please call if you have any problems."

"Thank you, Doctor," Starsky answered for both of them, and, with a nod, the doctor left the room.

Starsky sat down next to Hutch, lightly touched his chin and directed his eyes toward his face. "How ya doin', really?"

"I'm okay. It's over, now." Hutch's voice was still weak and hoarse. "I wouldn't mind a drink of water, though."

Starsky nodded and went to the sink, where there was a dispenser of paper cups attached above it on the wall. He filled a cup and brought it back to Hutch. "Just sip it, okay?"

Hutch drank slowly, but he finished it. When he looked back up, there was a little more color in his cheeks. "Can you hand me my clothes? I'm ready to get out of here."

"Okay." Starsky went to the chair and gathered up the garments in his arms. Do I need to remind you not two minutes after the doctor just did, that you're not going to be pushing it?"

"Getting dressed, Starsk," Hutch answered while reaching for his pants. "That's not pushing it."

"Let me give you a hand. It's gonna take you a while to get used to being a temporary leftie."

Hutch didn't seem to have either the energy or the inclination to refuse the needed help. "Okay," he answered simply.

Ten minutes later, Hutch was dressed with his holster back in place. Starsky had even neatly combed his hair, and, after another cup of water, Hutch felt well enough to get off the table and retrieve his prescription forms from the front desk. Signing his discharge papers with his left hand was a grim reminder of how difficult the next few days would be. He handed Starsky the bottle of pills the nurse had given him "to get started on" until his prescriptions were filled.

"I can't convince you to go home and climb into bed?" Starsky asked one more time as he scanned the waiting room, hoping to see the officers he'd asked to check back with him. "I could get you tucked in, then call Abby to come stay with you, while I go talk to Dobey and--"

"No, Starsk," Hutch interrupted. "I wanna go in." Hutch followed Starsky's gaze. "Who are we looking for?"

"Our ride. They towed your car to the station garage."

Before Hutch could respond, two blue-shirted men made their way through the crowd, and within thirty minutes, the detectives were seated in front of their captain.

~*~

One week later.

Starsky wearily climbed the stairs to Venice Place, clutching a sack of deli sandwiches and a six-pack of beer. It had been a long day, not that most of them weren't, but this one had included a three-hour meeting with the assistant district attorney assigned to prosecute Artie Solkin, now enjoying the comforts of the county jail while he awaited trial. Tommy Marlowe was still hospitalized, while doctors, who made a lot more money than police detectives did, determined his fitness to be tried.

When he and Hutch were finished with the tedious task, he'd driven his exhausted partner home, before going back out to pick up dinner for them both. Hutch hadn't been eating right all week, and today he'd had nothing but coffee, no matter how hard Starsky had tried to get some food in him.

He's going to eat this sandwich if I have to hand-feed him to do it, Starsky thought with grim determination, wondering again how much time Hutch would need before he'd be willing to talk.

The sense of accomplishment that normally followed the removal of dangerous criminals -- both the sane ones and the insane ones -- from the streets was missing for Starsky this time. It was too hard to feel anything but a dull sense of sadness over a case that had delivered so many body blows to Hutch.

Abby had been gone a day now. This time, she wouldn't be coming back.

Starsky plastered a smile on his face before he opened the door. "Chow's here, lazy bones," he called out to Hutch, who was sitting cross-legged on the couch. "Are we gonna eat like Bohemians, or are we sitting at the table?"

"Bohemians," Hutch answered, followed by a small smile. "I don't feel like getting up."

"Bohemians it is, then," Starsky agreed easily. "Let me just dump my jacket and grab some plates."

Hutch was still sitting cross-legged when Starsky approached the couch. The sack of sandwiches was clenched between his teeth, while his hands were full of plates, napkins, one can of beer and a bottle of orange juice. Once he reached his friend, he opened his mouth and let the sack fall in Hutch's lap. "Nice aim, pal." Hutch steadied the bag with his left hand. "Just set the plates down on the coffee-table, though, if you don't mind."

"I made it in one trip, didn't I?" Starsky complained, setting everything down before plopping next to Hutch. "Hand me the sack back and I'll get us divvied up."

"I can do it," Hutch said, while fumbling inside the bag. "This smaller bandage is easier to work with." He held up a wax-papered bundle. "Which is which?"

Starsky leaned forward and sniffed loudly. "Onions. That one's mine." He took the sandwich from Hutch and began unwrapping it. "I got you plain tuna."

"Thanks, Starsk, but I'm not really all that--"

"Hungry. I know. Eat it anyway. You haven't eaten anything all day, and you've still got pills to take tonight."

Hutch nodded simply and drew out the sandwich. He unwrapped it under Starsky's watchful gaze, a little clumsily, using the finger-tips of his right hand in conjunction with his left. "Smells pretty good."

"It is good; eat it." Starsky took a few bites of his own before speaking again. "You're moving your hand a lot better, ya know. It must be doing the healing it's supposed to be doing, if it's not hurting you as much lately."

"Yeah, it feels pretty good. You heard the doctor the other day when he changed the dressing. He said it's doing fine. No infection." Hutch took a tentative bite, chewed thoughtfully. "I guess I'll have to wait and see if the scars fade to hard spots, like the doctor thinks they will."

"The important thing is you have a whole, working hand," Starsky reminded him seriously. "A scar or two doesn't matter."

"I know that, Starsk."

For a few minutes the men ate quietly, shoulders lightly touching, while legs stretched out comfortably to rest on top of the table. Then Hutch put down his half-eaten meal and leaned his head back against the cushions, tired eyes falling closed.

"I didn't see it coming." His voice was weary, almost expressionless.

Starsky put his wrappings down and clasped Hutch's knee. "I know, babe."

"It wasn't just what Tommy did to her that made her leave. It was more than being scared. Being hurt. Or maybe it was all about being hurt. Maybe it was all about the ways I was hurting her that I didn't even know."

"Ah, come on, Hutch. You didn't hurt her. She loved you. She loved you, no matter what went down, and you love her...."

"Not enough. She knew that, too. She wanted to talk to me for days, and I kept putting it off. We were busy; the case was crazy. I didn't want to get into anything heavy, you know?" Hutch sat up and cupped his chin, leaning an elbow down next to Starsky's hand. "The thing is, I never really explained Gillian to her. How could I? Abby and I had dated -- what, ten months, eleven -- before I met Gillian? You know that things had already cooled off between us first. Were over, really, and then Gillian... Oh, God, Starsk. I never should have called Abby again. I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted to stop hurting, stop missing her... I used Abby." Guilt ridden eyes bore into Starsky.

And when the bough breaks....

"You didn't use her, buddy." Starsky's own eyes were soft with sympathy. "I know you better than your own mother knows you, and it isn't in you to use someone. Gillian died months before you called Abby, and it was natural for you to reach out to someone you'd been close to before." He reached for Hutch's chin, letting it rest in his palm. "So you two weren't Romeo and Juliet, but you were giving it a chance."

Hutch pulled away. "If I had tried a little harder, let her in a little more. Maybe she'd still be here, even after--"

"But maybe she wouldn't be," Starsky said unwaveringly. "Maybe she told you the simple truth. She just wanted to be home."

"And maybe she knew home would never be with me." Hutch got up then and switched on the TV. Starsky knew there'd be no more conversation tonight. It was possible his partner might never mention Abby again. Hutch did things like that. Sometimes he buried things real deep. Sometimes, like tonight, he gave a little of them away before the key was turned. Before the lock snapped closed. Sometimes the heaviest pain could only be shared for a little while, and only with someone who would never leave. Someone like him.

True partners -- true friends -- were for always. Like them.

The End.

scar tissue n. Dense fibrous connective tissue that forms over a healed wound or cut.


End file.
